


Hands behind the back (where I can see them)

by sebviathan



Series: Strange Magic [3]
Category: Psych
Genre: 5x13 We'd Like to Thank the Academy, Canon Divergent, Episode Tag, Established Relationship, Handcuffs, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Roleplay, a lot of stupid police puns, also: this CAN be read autonomously from the rest of the series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 03:07:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6836536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lassiter is upset that Shawn learned nothing while at the police academy; Shawn proves that that's not true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands behind the back (where I can see them)

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of a tangent fic to [Making waves across my time](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4832693), and while it certainly CAN be read without any knowledge of the rest of the Strange Magic series (especially if you're just in this for the porn), I'd personally recommend at least reading the bit of MWAMT that corresponds to this episode to get some emotional background. It's section IV of the fic. Scroll down or use F5 to find it.
> 
> I would also personally recommend rewatching the episode before or directly after reading this fic. It's just so good.
> 
> Otherwise, if you haven't read the other fics, I suppose what you _absolutely_ need to know about this verse is that Shawn and Lassiter got together during a case in between 5x04 and 5x05. MWAMT is about how them getting into a relationship at that time (around the time that Shawn and Jules canonically got together) affected the rest of the show's timeline.

There's a sort of thing between them—an unspoken thing, ever since they started dating, that neither would call a _rule_ because it's not exactly a conscious decision—that Shawn stays the night after most cases.

The factor being, one or both of them nearly dying. Most often Shawn, and _especially_ most often a very close call, where he practically looked death in the face and was then saved by pure lucky timing. Which is most often someone else coming to the rescue at the last second.

It's hard for Carlton not to be angry about that, but as always (as it's been for _years_ ), he knows he'll go fucking crazy if he thinks too much about _what might have happened_. So he simply tries to appreciate that Shawn is alive and by his side after all that—a comfort he was never able to have before the past few months.

Nevermind that on the car ride home, all Shawn wants to talk about is how much he can't _believe_ that he would ever date a guy like Nick Conforth.

"It was twenty years ago!" Carlton practically whines. "I would hardly even have called it dating—"

"Well, you called him your _ex_. And you were about to give him one of those nostalgic-closure-cheek-kisses back at the station," Shawn points out. "If you never dated, I think I should be concerned."

Carlton sighs and grips the wheel tighter. "It was the early nineties, Spencer. I know you were a little below the _dating_ age at the time, but with two guys, you just couldn't call it that. We... had an on-off fling, alright? We had a friendly rivalry—not entirely unlike _our_ thing, now that I think about it—and we both had steam to let off."

While Lassiter is mentally trying to define a long-dead relationship, Shawn latches onto something else:

"Hold on—you think _fourteen_ is below the dating age?"

After a good ten minutes of bickering in the car—primarily about what age is normal to have your first kiss, and what constitutes 'dating' in the first place—one thing they _can_ agree on is that it's good that Carlton was able to muster up some respect for Nick after all these years and have some closure.

"I'm proud of you," Shawn tells him half-seriously, shutting the door of Lassiter's apartment behind him. "For growing a little bit—you know, as a person. I think you learned a lot."

He laughs a little after that, and Carlton thinks to add with the same sort of mirth,

"Meanwhile _you_ learned absolutely nothing."

He doesn't mean it as a serious jab, as bitter as he might secretly be, and Shawn knows that, but _come on, son_ _—_

"I was only at the Police Academy for _two_ days!"

"Yeah, well, I still think you should complete the three-week crash course, even if the department isn't officially requiring you to." Carlton folds his arms, leans against the wall, and shrugs. He figures that makes his stance clear without also making him too imposing.

And Shawn _doesn't_ find him imposing, though he does find this a little ridiculous. So he matches him and leans against the couch.

"We already had this discussion, Lass—I promised I'll tell you before doing anything reckless, and I said you were a better cop than me and everything! And I meant it! And I proved that I couldn't possibly make it as a real cop just like you wanted, so I don't know what else—"

"I wasn't trying to _prove_ anything," Carlton says honestly, and with a confused frown "I just wanted it to be _fair_ _—_ because frankly, Shawn, you're the better detective between us by far, and you didn't even have to put in the work! You didn't _have_ to go to the academy and spend years as a regular police officer before getting promoted, and... I think it's only fair if you get a little taste of what everyone else has to do to get here."

Shawn holds his breath, and moreso holds onto the compliment.

"Oh."

"That, and I thought you could do to actually learn some of the rules."

At that, Shawn relaxes a bit into the back of the couch and purses his lips in a small pout.

"Come on, Lassie, you know I already know the rules... I just don't like 'em."

"And I know _you_ know that doesn't help your case."

Though as Carlton stares him down, Shawn's pout slowly eases into a grin, and his lips do the same. It feels like at least a minute that they're facing each other in silence and just smiling before Shawn straightens up, pushes off the couch, and starts forward.

And Carlton thinks he's about to have arms wrap around his neck and pull him down for a kiss, or otherwise some kind of apology (because he wants one, he at least wants Shawn to realize that _all_ he wants is to protect him)—but instead, Shawn stops a foot ahead of him.

"...There actually is _one_ thing I learned at the academy," he says slowly, like he realized it just then.

Carlton raises an eyebrow, unsure whether he should be nervous.

"What's that?"

"I now know the _official_ procedure for doing a full-body pat-down of a suspect."

Something lights up in Shawn's eyes, and subsequently in Carlton's as his breath also hitches in surprise—as he can see exactly where this is going. He tries not to seem too excited.

"You really know how to do it?" he thinks to ask. "By the book?"

"Every detail," Shawn confirms.

"Prove it."

Hardly even a second passes before Shawn tells him, smile gone from his face and voice stern, "Put your hands where I can see them, sir."

Caught off guard by the sudden change in demeanor, Carlton doesn't move.

"I _won't_ ask you again," Shawn presses, " _Sir_. Put your hands in the air where I can see them."

Carlton feels an overwhelming mix of emotions as he quickly unfolds his arms and places them above his head—pride, certainly. Some degree of fear, if for nothing but how seamlessly Shawn slipped into this—and stemming right off of that, unmistakable arousal. He still tries not to smile, even if that might play well into the role of some criminals in this position.

Shawn does smile just slightly then, however, just knowing that he's definitely not failing to be intimidating.

"Good—now turn around and place your hands flat against the wall." As he obeys, Shawn doesn't hesitate whatsoever to step forward and put a hand on Lassiter's back, and then kick in between his legs. "Feet apart, please."

He might obey a little too quickly, there. Shawn doesn't mind.

"Do you have any weapons on you, sir?" he asks, starting the pat-down at Lassiter's arms. "Any firearms or sharp objects you could use to hurt me?"

"Of course I do," Carlton responds almost with a laugh, at which Shawn's hands immediately become rougher on him.

They come around his chest, taking their time in making sure there's nothing strapped to his front, and now with the luxury of Shawn not being able to see his face, Carlton lets himself grin. For just a moment, really, when it becomes obvious to the both of them that his nipples are poking sharply through his shirt.

Then Shawn reaches his holster and removes his gun with a sort of mock-disapproving look. As he sets it aside, Carlton takes a split-second to scratch his face—which would only be a mistake if he was a real criminal.

"Keep _both_ hands on the wall, sir!" Shawn yells at once, startling him into doing so. "Or I'll have no choice but to handcuff you while I pat the rest of you down."

There's no hint of invitation in his voice—he sounds exactly like a real cop. But it feels like _instinct_ that he pointedly drops one of his arms.

If it's Shawn rubbing off on him, that's incredibly ironic considering how quickly Shawn orders him to put both hands behind his back, simultaneously jerking them back himself, and slaps a pair of cuffs tightly over his wrists.

 _Cuffs from his own pocket_ _—_ _cuffs that he brought home from the police academy. He's been fucking_ planning _this._

What gets to Carlton more, however, is that while he doesn't exactly put up too much resistance, Shawn has a fairly easy time manhandling the hell out of him. He's _really_ not holding back.

As he's practically shoved into the wall by the back of his shirt, and as his legs are kicked further apart, and with simply the knowledge of how long it's been since he was last handcuffed, for something like this or otherwise, Carlton actually lets out a satisfied groan.

Out of the corner of his eye, with his cheek now pressed against the wall, he can see Shawn looking far more satisfied, leaning close to speak over his shoulder.

"I'm going to need to remove your belt in order to check your waistband, sir."

Carlton gives him the tiniest of nods as permission, trying to keep his breath steady. If for nothing else, then to at least keep his dignity while his face is flushed so deep.

Shawn allows the belt to hit the floor once he pulls it off, but otherwise maintains a professional stance and merely slides two fingers under the waistband to check for weapons. He feels the man shiver—at the touch or at the disappointment of the lack of it, he can't be sure, but he's proud of himself regardless.

He empties Lassiter's pockets unceremoniously—his wallet, his keys, a pair of handcuffs, and a small knife—and then drops to his knees.

While the mood doesn't call for passing thoughts of the sort, Shawn can't help but be terribly amused to find a switchblade strapped to his boyfriend's ankle. And then, as he makes his way up the leg, surprised not to find anything else—

Except as he reaches the very top of his thigh and feels something so hard that he very nearly believes it actually is a second gun.

Biting back an _"or are you just happy to see me?"_ , Shawn just smirks, allows his hand to brush over it once, and pauses to hear Lassie gasp before moving onto pat down the other leg.

Carlton is practically crying by the time he stands back up, his face red and his breathing labored and his head feeling so light that it almost doesn't occur to him that Shawn has completed every last detail of a pat-down. On some level he's deeply impressed, but for the most part at this point, he just wants Shawn to _do something_ about the painful straining in his pants.

Which was the purpose of this whole thing in the first place, he's sure.

"Am I free to go, officer?" Carlton says breathlessly, keening against the wall.

For just a moment, Shawn has half a mind to simply undo the handcuffs, say _"there, I proved it,"_ and walk away like nothing happened—but he can't be _that_ mean, not now. Not when Lassie is... like this.

Not when this still gives him so many opportunities.

"I'm afraid you're too suspicious for me to let you go quite yet, sir. I'll have to do... a body cavity search."

Nevermind the fact that those can't legally happen without a warrant, or how stupid the joke is, Carlton feels relief wash over him at the words alone—and then an embarrassingly loud groan escapes him when he feels Shawn slide his hand firmly in-between his ass cheeks, over the fabric of his pants.

Oh _god_ _—_

Clearly, all professionalism has gone out the window by this point. And he's very okay with that.

"Can you— _shit_ _—_ can we move to the bed? _Officer_?" _Either that or you un-cuff me so I can brace myself while you give me the 'cavity search'_ should be evident enough without him saying.

Shawn very briefly considers the latter before wrapping an arm around Carlton's chest, pulling him off the wall and against his own chest, and kisses the back of his neck.

"Of course, Lassie."

He still "escorts" him to the bedroom like he's a criminal, and Carlton doesn't know whether he should be ashamed that that makes him even harder. But he lets Shawn shove him onto the bed, and he stays on his knees with his face pressed into the mattress without protest, and he arches his back like hell when Shawn finally pulls his pants down to mid-thigh—

And if there's anything at all to really be ashamed of, he decides, it's the way he _screams_ when Shawn grabs Carlton's hips and presses his tongue into his ass with barely any warning.

Though Shawn himself doesn't mind hearing it one bit.

 _This is_ _—_ god, Carlton wants to _laugh_ because he can't not think of how " _this isn't a standard cavity search_ "—but he's stuck in-between that and gasping and moaning into the sheets for a solid few minutes. In that time Shawn lets up only for a few seconds at a time to breathe, and then just gets right back into licking his hole _like nobody's business_ , and tongue-fucking him, and, and—

And Carlton has so much tension built up he thinks he might die if Shawn doesn't actually _touch_ him soon.

"This is cruel and unusual punishment," he finally manages to groan out, muffled a bit by the bed—

At which Shawn also finally comes up not only for air, but to chuckle and say,

"What, eating your ass? I figured the opposite."

Carlton then does something that is normally beneath his dignity—he outright _whines_ _—_ which is code for _you know what the fuck I mean._

To his (mostly) relief, Shawn doesn't resume what he was doing, but instead stands up, and starts working Carlton's shoes off. He imagines from his position that Shawn has re-entered the persona he had on before, and the sudden awareness of the strain on his wrists from the handcuffs, particularly the cold metal, makes that easier. Yet again, he finds that it makes him even more aroused—though he isn't quite sure how that's possible.

Soon his pants are all the way off, and Shawn is free to undo his own, but he leaves his shirt on simply because Lassie still has his. It's only fair, even if his chest is burning up like hell.

_Ah, Jesus_ _—_

He opts to burn it up worse by following an impulse and climbing over Lassie, sliding an arm around his chest and turning his head, and kissing him. Carlton eagerly kisses back as he's missed it this whole time, not just since they started this but since they started on the way _home_ _—_ he moans into Shawn's mouth and sucks on his tongue, doesn't even care that that tongue was in his own ass just a minute ago.

What he does care about is that his cock has been hanging out for what feels like forever, aching and completely untouched—and dammit, he's certainly not a real psychic, but Shawn seems to read his mind.

Or he seems to finally _care_ about giving him some relief—he realizes that he started this, after all.

"Sorry, Lassie," Shawn breathes into his ear when he stops after only a few strokes. And he really does mean it. "I won't keep you from coming for too long, promise."

For Carlton the next thirty seconds or so are hell, as all he can do is wait. He knows exactly what Shawn's doing, but he can't see it, and no one and nothing is touching him but the fabric of his shirt and the bed, and his arms are getting more uncomfortable by the _second_ _—_

And then Shawn is finally behind him again, the first of which he feels is, oddly enough, a hand in one of his. Then lips at his knuckles.

"You have the right to remain silent," he says, sternly like before. "...And I have the privilege to make sure you don't."

"For _that_ , I just might stay quiet," Carlton bites back in his impatience.

Shawn just laughs and immediately proves that that's not possible—by pushing two lubed-up fingers knuckle-deep into the other man's ass. The resulting moan is just slightly more satisfying than the press of Lassie's hips back _into_ it.

He takes that as an indication that several minutes of Shawn's tongue wiggling around inside him was enough prep—either that, or he's simply desperate for it regardless.

_Oh_ _—_ _shit._

What kind of pretend officer of the law would he _be_ if he kept him waiting?

"Sir, I have a warrant for your... ass," he thinks to say next, which the two of them think is both hilarious and fucking stupid, but Carlton couldn't say anything in response if he _wanted_.

That is, with Shawn's cock finally lubed up and pressing into him. He pushes back again, which Shawn takes as permission to thrust right to the hilt.

 _Fucking finally,_ is what Carlton thinks, but what comes out is one of the filthiest moans he can recall ever making in his life. It clearly translates as the same thing, as Shawn keeps doing _just that_ at a hard and fast pace. Fuck, _Shawn_. What's it been, five months now? It's stupid to still be thinking like this, but god, a little over five months ago he wouldn't have dared to _hope_ he could have this.

It's crazy, really, that _any_ of that makes it to the front of his mind _now_ _—_ when he's full of Shawn's cock and embarrassingly close to coming already.

Except it can't be embarrassing when it's fucking Shawn's fault anyway, getting him ridiculously worked up for so long with hardly any relief until now, the _asshole_.

And Shawn's hand is there to keep most of his come from staining the sheets when he does shudder and release—and Shawn's hands are also there to steady him, to hurry and fumble with the key to finally get the cuffs off, to toss them away and rub at his shoulders and to wipe the come off his own ass—

"Wait." Carlton somehow only realizes once they're both lying down and finally facing each other again, and frowns deeply even in his haze. "I obviously know why I barely took any time, but how the hell did _you_ come so fast?"

"...I guess I just really like seeing you in handcuffs," Shawn shrugs, then gently takes a hold of one of Lassie's sore wrists and pulls it up to where he can kiss it.

Sickeningly sweet gesture (and otherwise implications) aside, that reminds Carlton of what set these events in motion in the first place. A hint of lingering bitterness creeps up, but mostly,

"I wonder what Nick Conforth would think if he knew this was how you used his lesson..."

His eyes slip closed, a grin slips into his cheeks, and the words slip out of his mouth along with a sort of giggle. It's the post-coital dizziness getting to him, he thinks distantly—the blood rushing back to his head, but also out of it now that he's finally horizontal.

Shawn feels similarly, but for a different reason. He's mostly engulfed by the desire to keep holding Lassie's hand close to his face, as well as grab the other one.

"I wasn't planning on telling him," he says, just as low but much more deliberately. As he kisses the wrist he left out before, Carlton hums and reopens his eyes. "But I was... thinking."

"That's new."

He can't resist, and Shawn doesn't resist a brief smirk of amusement, either.

"If it isn't department-mandated anymore, would the rest of the crash course have to come out of my own pocket?" he asks as though any reasonable person could have expected that sentence to come out of his mouth.

Of course, Carlton fancies himself a reasonable person most of the time, and he's so startled that he doesn't even understand what the hell the other man is saying to him for a moment. Then again, that could be blamed on the haze he's still in.

"...What?"

"The three-week crash course at the police academy."

Carlton blinks, trying to mentally work out how Shawn is even saying that phrase in such a soft voice. Or with a smile like that.

"What about it?"

"You said you wanted me to finish it." He pauses when he realizes how helpless his boyfriend looks, and sighs. "Lassie... I'm saying that I'm willing to do it. But if it's gonna cost me then naturally I'm gonna have to pickpocket Gus, and I think it would be a little ironic if I broke the law in the process of training to _protect_ the law, so... I'm also saying that you should pay for it. But other than that I'll—"

He's stopped by the intense look in Carlton's eyes as he shifts closer—and then seems to match it.

"You really want to?" he asks, feeling helpless as ever with him. What it really means is _WHY do you want to?_

Shawn, meanwhile, actually pauses again.

"Insanely enough... yeah, Lassie, I do."

For the both of them, that easily translates to _for you, of course._

And for the moment, all Carlton wants to do his hold him and kiss him— _yes_ , he'll pay for it, of course he'll pay for it when he asked in the first place, but they can talk about that later because _now_ he is just... He is simply in disbelief that he hasn't dreamt this all up, that it's real.

"Maybe I'll learn a couple more things to use on you while I'm there, too," Shawn breathes in between kisses hardly a minute later.

 _Yeah,_ Carlton decides. _It's definitely real._

**Author's Note:**

> My practical knowledge of a suspect pat-down comes from the Law Enforcement classes I took in highschool. My teacher, an ex-DEA agent named Mrs. Deaver, would be so hilariously disappointed to know that this is how I used that information. She was a huge bully and fairly homophobic, so who gives a shit, right?
> 
> I hope to someday find a reason to also use my practical knowledge of other things I learned in that class, like building searches and filing police reports, for the sake of writing porn.


End file.
